


Forever All That I Could See

by InkwellSlayer



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Blind Character, Blind!Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, M/M, Sexual Frustration, Sherlock Blind, blind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:28:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkwellSlayer/pseuds/InkwellSlayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock, blind and reclusive, finds solace in John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

My vision is so dark. It kills me that I will never again be able to visually analyse the scene of a murder, absorbing its detail and mystery within mere seconds. I will never again have use for a microscope. I will feel the ash between my fingers, but I can no longer identify it. And I can no longer study the mystery that is human nature, and human error. The most minute facial expressions subliminally created, I can no longer notice them, or deduce their hidden meanings.

Worse yet, I will never again see the face of John Watson.

I’ve hidden this affection for months or years – I’ve lost count. But I remember that face so clearly. He always wore it with pride, with the strength and honour of a soldier. I saw beneath that yet, I saw the addict that longed to hurt another. I saw myself in those eyes. I remember the way he looked at me when he thought I was concentrating. The truth is, I used those moments as a sort of examination of John. I watched him from an invisible two-way mirror. I watched his as if I were not there. Only I was, and he stared at me intensely. His fine hair had a wonderful gradient of greys and blondes that intertwined and shone in the sunlight. As specks of dust would float around his face, I wondered if they should ever land something so beautiful. I imagine every detail of him that I will never see again through my own eyes. I imagine the detail of his face, each crease and line deepening as he ages, and when every one of those blonde hairs eventually turns to grey. I only wish I could watch him forever.

My mind palace is in disarray. Each door has rotted, the hinges and doorknobs have rusted, and the frames have broken. My memories seem intact, but they are surrounded by plagues of waste, and are nearly inaccessible. I walk my stairs in an eerie green light, my shadow long. The doors that keep my darkest secrets I haven’t yet opened. I fear the worst. But past all this, I go to the safest place I have. The only place I have. I open the chamber of my mind, and find myself at my home. It is not rotten, nor broken, nor tainted. I am there, at last, at 221B Baker Street.  
My wallpaper is there, with my decorations adorning its old walls. The curtains are drawn, and there is fresh tea awaiting me at the coffee table. I do not approach it. I sit in my chair, and watch his chair opposite. In a moment now, he should be there.  
 _‘John…’_  
He is there. He is my bliss.  
I reach to touch him, leaning forward in my chair. He sits calmly. I reach and touch him, and with the strongest mental capability I have, it is nearly real. Perhaps my blindness assists in this. He does not resist, but he turns his head to watch.  
 _‘John…’_  
I lean my head longingly to its side, devouring every detail I cannot consciously remember. It is all here, in the palace of my mind.  
 _‘John…’_  
“Sherlock?”  
Immediately, I am gone. The memory fades in the puff of a cigarette, and I listen with fear and delight.  
“John, I…”  
I am lost for words. Every one of his breaths is louder and deeper than I remember, and I thought I remembered him in such detail. His footsteps are uncharacteristically soft. He has heard me, and I have unintentionally been moaning his name aloud.  
I turn my head in what I believe is his direction, but I find that he is behind me.  
“I thought I told you not to come around, John. Solitude is all I have now. Alone protects me.”  
“You need a friend, Sherlock.”  
At that moment my breath hitches. The word triggers me, the word Mycroft and I would always laugh at, and the word I have lately become familiar with.  
Friend.  
“Sherlock, I think you need something. A case, maybe…? I know one of my clients has been having an issue with finding her…”  
But I interrupt that delicate voice.  
“No, John. I need you.”  
Immediately I regret these words.  
“Sorry, what?”  
I rise and turn from my chair. I open my eyes. I imagine that they can still see.  
“John,”  
My voice wavers.  
“John, you’re… Important to me. You’re one of few people that mean anything to me. I can’t control myself, though. I want to own you. I want you to absorb me, everything that I have. But I can’t hurt you, and I never will. If I torment myself and pretend that you’re there, in my mind, it almost makes it bearable. Leave, John.”  
My eyes glaze over. I can only hope that his aren’t the same. I hope that I can take his tears; I hope that he can forget me.  
“Sherlock, you dickhead. I was forced to imagine that world without you, wasn’t I? When you left me? I didn’t have a mind palace, I had a gravestone and two-hundred and forty bloody types of tobacco ash.”  
“Two-hundred and forty three.”  
I didn’t see it, but I heard him shuffle. I knew him so well in that moment. He forgave me, for anything that I had done, or could possibly ever do, despite everything that I am. At that moment he leant forward, and with such tenderness I felt first the light touch of his tender lips. His cupid’s bow pressed against mine, swirling around my mind and my universe simultaneously; for an infinite amount of time, and for but a second. He released, and I dared not insist on more.  
But he understood that I wanted that.  
I was transported by his warm lips back into the 221B Baker Street of my mind. Gradually he came around to the front of my chair, and his kiss began anew. I softly kissed him back.

He grabbed by curls with his left hand and my face in his right. He pulled me in closer, impossibly closer, and I reached behind myself for stability. My mouth opened, partly in shock, and it was greeted by his sweet tongue reaching inside.  
I only realised then that I was completely in love with him. I realised what love was, and every secret of the universe. I realised that love could never exist in another form other that of John Watson, and I that I would sacrifice my hearing, smelling and tasting for him to love me back. I knew that for one second, John Watson had given me the power to see again.

We made no noise. It was silent, and perfect. He pulled away both of his hands, and I wondered if he was looking into my eyes.

“How is it that you can make me feel human, John?”  
He didn’t reply, but in a single motion he embraced me. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I returned that embrace with strength and adoration. His body shook, and mine too when his tears dampened my face.  
John was forever all that I could see.


	2. Chapter 2

I wake from a dream in a cold sweat. The sheets once wrapped neatly around my body have been creased and are permeated by my fear from a clearly terrifying dream. I do not remember it; and nor do I want to. I was once excellent at retaining my dreams; I found that their unique insight into my subconscious found a deeper level than I could reach in my mind palace, and so I often consulted my lucid state to find hidden observations and thoughts. But since I lost the ability to see, my subconscious is starving. It has no visions to feed on, my thoughts and their manifestations seem like they have lost a dimension. Whenever I do remember a dream I am disgusted by myself, and fearful of sleep. It seems like the part of my mind that controls my dreams is too preoccupied being without sight in order to imagine John.

Perhaps, though, this is what frightens me most in my dreams, a life without him.

I am reminded of yesterday. Wonderful, surreal yesterday. How did John know me so well? How was it that John could unfold my entire existence, one that I fought to keep so hidden from others, even from myself? And how could John make me see again?

I remember how I stared for him long after, even if I wasn’t able to interpret what was before me. I looked at him so intensely, with a complex devotion. Soon after I left for my room, without word, falling asleep on the memory.

I start to doubt myself, I start to doubt if he regards me as highly as I do him. I start to wonder if this outburst of affection – however brief – was only pity.

To the right of the room I hear a scratch at the keyhole. I hear his pronounced footsteps walk along my wooden floorboards. I locked my door last night, but John has found his way in regardless. On my bedside table he placed a full, steaming teapot, a mug for himself and a teacup for me. I realised the state I was in and hurriedly gathered my sheets around my bare chest. I am sure that my embarrassment was visible. A little chuckle came from his lips, those lips that I knew. Those lips that I’d felt, studied and tasted.

“Brought you some tea.”

I knew fully well that it was, in fact, tea that he had brought me, but I replied:

“Thank you, John.”  
He leans his weight to the other side. I feel I’ve convinced him that his limp is psychosomatic, but I keep to myself the truth that he is an injured man still. A swarm of reminiscence hits me; I remember his damaged gait when I first met him, and combining the fresh memory of the sound of his footsteps with an old memory of his confident walk overwhelms me. Hearing his full body in motion is enough to make me hold my breath.  
He notices this, and asks me:

“Sherlock y’alright?”  
I release my breath and turn my head toward him.

“Yes, quite alright, thank you.”

“Look, Sherlock, I’m sorry. Really, I’m not that sure where I was last night, and I understand that you need your rest, and prefer to be alone sometimes. I get that. But Sherlock, you’ve got to accept that I have feelings for you, somewhere underneath all this.”

I hear him shuffle a gesture.

“I’m sorry.”

These words, spoken from the tongue of a demigod were audible bliss. If not pity, then what was he feeling? With every inch of myself I wished that he felt as acutely as I do, I want him all, I want his love. I want him to make me crumble at his feet in devotion, and I want him to live forever. Everything I have ever known, every little deduction, I could not muster words to match his. I suppose my body language spoke for itself when I collapsed. My only strength poured itself into my hand when I grabbed John’s arm and didn’t let go.

John decided, after that, that it was perhaps best to crawl in with me.

I knew how my bed would appear, but John didn’t seem to mind as he took off his slippers and wrapped my arm around him. He took the damp sheet and bundled it under his chin, taking a little bit too much of it for himself. I didn’t mind. The thin skin of my chest rubbed against the warmth of John’s jumper, and his short hair was nestled under my nose.

My, he smelt wonderful.

Unknowingly I was running my foot down his leg, and I felt the contours of it under his trousers like I had always wanted to. We lay on our sides, with my arm unbearably close to his back. With every part of me that was connected to him, I mapped his body in my mind. Every curve and imperfection (however perfect) was marked in a lattice of John’s body in my mind. The earlier John I held in there was hollow, and now in my bed, with our untouched cups of tea cooling, my sweaty sheets and John’s itchy woolen jumper we were intertwined so wonderfully. I did not protest, and I did not feel him object either.

I have never understood love like this. I’d taken a particular interest in the chemistry of love in my college studies, and I suppose that is where the foundation of knowledge for love came from. How intoxicating and hypnotic can one thing be? The faint musk of John’s scent and the fine roughness of his skin change my genetic structure, it penetrates the marrow of my bones! How foreign a thing like his muffled sighs can be, barely inches away from my own ears?

If I can never understand love, then I will never understand him.

He turns around.

“Sherlock you’re doing it again”

A delayed response on my part.

“Hm?”

“Sherlock talk to me, you’re not talking.”

I buried my face in that warm place under his chin and over his chest, like a child. Fearlessly I whispered:

“John, I love you.”

And I fell back asleep, in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

In my wake I felt John caressing my back and exploring my body. His wide hands pushed my skin back and forth. He thrust down with strength in his fingertips, massaging me. I turned to look at him, but I couldn’t. He saw me awake and released his hold.

”Sherlock!”

I did not want to reply.  
“Good afternoon, John. How long have you been awake?”

I realised that it might not have been afternoon. It could well have been evening, night or even morning. He hesitated.

“A few hours.”

I was shocked, but I resolved that he must have left me for a time.

He shifted in my bed and turned to his side, over me. His fingers reached over and twirled around my hair counter-clockwise, and his breaths were slow.

“Sherlock, I’ve been in _many_ relationships. When I brought home a girl, I knew you could see what would happen – it would last a few weeks, maybe a month. I knew out of protection you said nothing to either the girl or myself, but _I_ knew what would happen too. I’ve never been good with them.”

He stopped, pulling my hair straight and letting go. He faces me, and in his rare stern voice he says:

“I tend to use the person I’m seeing physically, more than emotionally. I like to examine them, and I like to manipulate their body. I like to take what I am given by them. My desire for you is very different, it’s affection. I don’t know how you do it; I don’t know how you can express this higher power without me going insane. I don’t know why I stay here, I don’t know why I let you _watch_ me.”

He sharply took in a breath.

“You torment me. I came back from a bloody war and you tell me every thing that is wrong with my character and physical being, upon meeting me. I want you, Sherlock, but not yet.”

 _Want…_ What was that? Was it emotional? Surely we’d achieved this already. I consider what he said, sexually. Was that the goal of a relationship? I always assumed sex to be a long-term desire, but seemingly it was a temporary affair in the eyes of John. I consider further what he has said, the history of John’s relationships and – their durations. I conclude that his relationships are somewhat dependent on sex.

But where does my sexual attraction lie?  What does John find in me; my long face and neck draped with loose pallid skin, my muscles sickly, my hair untamed. Especially now, I am unable to properly care for myself. My shaving is patched; I fear I will cut my own throat if I trim too close, and my eyes are unavailing.

“I am blind, John.”

“Sherlock, what I’m trying to say is that what I initially look for in a relationship is sexual oppourtunity—“

“No, John. I am useless.  I am blind. My libs are weak. I live in darkness internally and externally, and I can’t be with you in this way.”  
However lustful a part of me seems to be.

“—I’m saying that I won’t treat you that way. I won’t abuse what you’ve been given; I won’t take any more from you. I only want what you want, Sherlock. I promise.”

He returns, in these words he is the _old_ John, the fool that I live with, that follows me around and mocks me. The John that I love. I fear I shall whimper, but I swallow whatever emotion is there and respond:

“I’d like that very much John.”

I smiled.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Sherlock. Something that’s been whispered, things I’ve heard, about you.”

I am struck with fear. What could he possibly know? And for that matter, others?

“You know, Mycroft said it once. About you. And sex. Y’know, he said you didn’t know about it, or something along those lines.”

“Ah, yes, well there is truth in this. It’s true, I – I suppose I’m a _virgin_. I’ve never really found interest in exposing myself in that way, I hope you understand, but I recognise its role in society, and the obsession with it in people like you, John. I know it to be something powerful, and I observed it on occasion with the scientific method in mind for personal analysis. I am not unaware of it, and I am not afraid knowing it, but I am reluctant to engage in it.”

“Oh. Right. Right, sorry I just meant… Ok sorry, I just wanted you to see things from my point of view.

He paused again.

“A poor choice of words, John.”

He gulped.

“Ah—Sorry about that again.”

I smile.

“No, no, that is quite alright.”

I pause myself, hearing his shallow, somehow apologetic _breaths._

I lift my legs out of the bed. I want to leave my room, it has a deep pestilence about it, I want to feel the sunlight, and I want to leave this conversation. John has found something, a little pressure point on me that makes me weak, but I trust him enough to not misuse that. A part of me wants to turn around and thank him for enduring me, to tell him if he’d done one thing different in all of his life I could not possible love him as much as I do now. I want to tell him how I once squealed with delight when the sun caught his blond hair, and when he would wear his ill-fitting jumpers in the winter.  

I stood and turned, managing only a gasp, forcing out the words:

“John, do you love me too?”

How vulgar. How clichéd, ‘Love me too.’ I could have written sonnets and symphonies for this man, but I say these ancient, meaningless words to ask him and he responds:

“Yes, of course I do you twit.”

My eyes water but do not tear, and my internal world is brightened. Every unturned stone in my mind palace turns itself one hundred-and-one times, and every piece of information there is aligned with the universe. It seems as though Mrs. Hudson has dusted every shelf, but I don’t care, because he loves me and I love him back.

“Come on, I fancy some toast and jam. Actually, I’m starving, you?”

Such an idea had not occurred to me; it seemed so beside the point, the last of my concerns. But I supposed I was, and I followed him with my memory of 221B, skimming past every corner and point blindly. The kettle was boiling in the kitchen and I could smell the slowly warming bread. I imagine tasting that sweet raspberry jam on his lips. It occurs to me that if I wanted to, I could, but perhaps I will take things slow and find my bearings first. I will make sense of every new and bursting emotion inside of me, because he loves me. He steps near me and takes my hand, placing a piece of buttered bread in it.

“Toast was taking too long.”

He lets go. I bite the bread, which tastes better than any delicacy I have ever known.

I know that now, whatever time of day it was, he would be so beautiful and I could never see.

I ate the rest of the bread, and I could smell the sweet jam being spread across his toast.


	4. Chapter 4

I lay down on the couch, my legs were too long and they hung off the edge lazily. My head lolled down the arm and scraped against the edge. I didn’t mind; I had a full stomach and a mind of butterflies. He was there; he loomed over me. He dropped down to his knees and kissed my forehead softly, and the butterflies in my mind escaped into his mouth with his gentle touch. I couldn’t help but smile, try to look up to him. A sharp burst of breath escaped his nose, and I knew that he smiled back too.

He sat in his little chair, stained with the rings of teacups and mugs, and I could hear the air whistling through the fabric as he sat.

“So, Sherlock! You spoken to Greg lately?”

“To whom?”

“Lestrade.”

“Right. No, not for a few months now. He’s been busy, hasn’t he?”

“No not really.”

There was silence for a time.

He coughed, and said to me: “Well then, maybe you should give him a call.”  
I was glad that I could send text messages, still. In perfecting the art of typing blindly, I could still send messages with the occasional mistake.

“No, I’d rather send him a text.”

Carefully, my finders slipped over the letters and spelled:

 

_Lestrade. How are you?_

_SH_

 

I showed it to him and asked if it was alright.

“Yes, it’s fine Sherlock. You don’t need to ask me if it is, really.”

I felt I needed to anyway.

The air between us had changed.

“Sherlock, what do you see?”

I knew what he meant. I could tell the truth and say it was him, always, but I didn’t.

“I see memories of where I’ve been, slipping and unaligned in my environments. I rely on my knowledge to map things; objects, places and people. There are details I haven’t explored yet, but I can’t find them anymore. They are gone.”

“You know you can make it anything you want, right?”

I readjusted myself and sat up.

“Make _what_ I want, John?”

“Make… It. You know, _sex._ You’re…blind. It’s any way you want it to feel, isn’t it?”

It isn’t. My imagination doesn’t carry me, my mind is forged in fact and assumption, but not uneducated guesses. I began to lose my temper, which had been hanging dormant for months now in my constant frustration, in not being able to see.

“I’m sorry, but my body–“

“I know, I know, I just wanted you to know that it doesn’t have to be _me,_ it can be anyone, if you want it to.”

“I don’t want any one else, John, I want you.”

These words, a mistake.

“So you _want.”_

I don’t like to be manipulated, especially by John.

“No, I don’t _want_ to be manipulated.”

I raised my voice.

“I don’t want you touch me without my specific _permission_ , John.”

I leant forward, my weight pushed to the front of the couch. I moved my head as close to his direction as I could discern.

“I don’t want you to look at me. If you are going to share this relationship with me, then don’t _lie_ to me, and do not mask what _you_ want with what I do.”

“I just wanted– “

“ _You_ wanted, John. _You_ wanted. I want you to stand further away from me, and _let me see it for myself.”_

He silenced me with a sweet kiss pressed from my lips and into my teeth. He grabbed my hair with his left hand and pulled it back from my head. He breathed on me, he forced me down and in that pain I felt such pleasure and forgiveness and loyalty. This attraction, which I could grasp, which I could feel, I harnessed it and turned it into delusions of grandeur. It was so strong and primal, my hips slowly bucked and snapped into their place, closer to him. I was balancing on the tips of my feet with my knees bent into his body as close as I could find myself or fool myself to be. In this proximity it was red, and the heat between us was more than warmth. I could see red, behind my eyelids, and in my eyes. I could see him in red; I could see a saturated contrast of his body near mine. I was so ready, I was logically weakened and desiring to explore. I needed to lose myself, and my purity, I needed to be like him more, and my love became lust.

I raised my hands to meet him, but he released and stood straight. I tried to express to him that I was sorry in every way. I tried to say to him that I loved him again and again, I tried to tell him that I was ready, but he brushed past my leg as he walked away, and I whimpered softly in longing. He stopped for a moment when he heard me, but he continued on, I was left on the couch.

I was not ready. I fumbled around near me, I tried to find something I could busy my fingers with, but there was nothing I could get to in time before my mind washed over in shame. I sunk further into the couch, but I was so awake, alive in my thoughts. I got up to apologise to him with the very few words there were left in me, but the door was slammed before I could reach his scent.

I was not ready to intertwine his body with mine yet, the very idea repulsed me. But I was ready to give him my commitment, and a promise that someday I would be his. It was my fault, and if he had left for a day of forever, I did not know. I sorely missed him, If I could give him my body, I would. I couldn’t make sense of him, but I loved him and hated myself. I couldn’t see his emotion, I couldn’t see if he lied or told truth to me, I couldn’t find a waver in his voice and I couldn’t know why he loved me. I was nothing in contrast to him. That sound, the resonating slam of the door and echo down the stairs stayed in my mind, five hundred times louder than it was to him but five hundred times softer than when I’d heard it first. A tear swelled in my eye, a tear of pain. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, and stumbled to find a pack of cigarettes he’d hidden somewhere.


	5. Chapter 5

The ash was falling on my skin, burning holes in different shapes across my arms and chest. My fingers were nicotine-stained, and the smoke stayed in my lungs and the room. I had a pack, and I was chain-smoking it smoothly and carelessly. I felt like sleeping in it where I lay on the ground, surrounded in the smells of my burning skin and the wetness of my meaningless tears. The smoke absorbed them, dissolved them in the air and on my face. My spine was brittle on the floor, and the echo of imaginary footsteps stayed forever in my ears. My lips still curled when I thought of them against his, when I thought about him loving me. I swallowed, and blinked the dryness out of my eyes.

What if he came back, and found me like this? I am desperate, perhaps he would pity me. Perhaps he would kiss me – or not, if his lungs were to stay clean. Would he hurt me? I’m sure I wouldn’t mind.

A few inches from my fingertips, my phone vibrated against the floor. After a few moments of thought I unlocked it, in its imitative human voice it dictated to me:

 

_im alright sherlock, going to pub later if you want a pint_

_greg_

The words hung in my mind, layering over the idle yet potent thoughts of John and giving my mind a sort of transparency. Even considering it, with him gone I would be willing to sell my soul for the mere thought of a ‘pint.’ Typically I would never agree; the effects of social drinking on the mind are dampening and counter-intuitive. Moreover, I’ve scarcely gone outside to retrieve my mail _since_.

 

_Suppose I will come. Cannot refuse in current situation. If you wouldn’t mind, the bar closest to 221B would be ideal._

I hesitated, and added:

_Thank you, Greg._

_SH_

 

I dropped the phone and took another puff. I begged that it would not respond for a few moments, but it came back almost instantly with:

 

_thats alright sherlock, best go now eh_

greg

 

I didn’t think it was necessary to reply. I rolled to my side and let some of the ash fall into a pile on the ground, and I winced as it brushed the burns that were scattered along me. The smell stayed in my pores; and Greg would smell the fumes where they lingered in my body. I slowly exchanged my weight from one side to the other until I finally stood, bending and using furniture around me for support. My drifting thoughts and memories did not serve me well; I my steps did not align, but I did not fall. I stumbled to the kitchen and washed my face, brisk cold water stung in my eyes and my wounds. I stumbled to my bedroom. I wore the clothes I hadn’t worn for months, my shirt and pants hanging loosely over my weak muscles. They did not fit anymore, and my coat and scarf could not hide that. I left my room without them, looking for some money.

I found the money I needed in my pocket. From the years I had spent smoothing out my bills, cleaning them and exchanging their worth, I knew I had roughly ninety pounds on me, enough for my own needs and Greg’s. Perhaps the people that sold cigarettes near me would take pity too; sell me some to feed my empty lungs.

The smoke could never be enough, I choked, it hurt to breathe without him. Alone with my thoughts, the small trails in pondering the outside world and the heavy ones of love and sex, they weighed me down and every step took me longer to reach the front door. The handle was cold, and I noticed the fine layer of dust it had gathered around the print of John’s fingers and palm. The shape was still there; I wanted it to be preserved until the dust finally grew again, and to stop me from walking out my door into the unknown. I would ask Mrs. Hudson to help me there. I would be with a friend, I would be happy.

My long fingers overlapped the memory of John’s shorter ones on the door handle, the dust gathered around the oils of my fingertips and stuck there as I slowly turned my wrist and opened my door. Immediately the air was different, it was newer and mine was damper. Downstairs Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps halted, she had heard me open the door. I realised that by opening it slowly it would creak, but there was no other way, my movements were always slow now, cautious, as if I were walking on needles. I balanced my weight carefully while I hobbled with my cloudy mind, the steps would only be inches before me.

I could just fall. It wouldn’t be enough, but if I fell then maybe I’d see him again.

Rather, I might know him again.

I took the first step down and desperately grasped the wall next to the stair. I took the next step, and walked down them one at a time. I was met at the base.

“Sherlock.”

Her voice was lost; she hadn’t spoken to me in weeks. She didn’t bring me tea anymore.

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“Come on, Sherlock.” She spoke with more life now.

I could have said to her that I was simply paying a visit, that she was a friend, and that her company was missing in my life. I could have exaggerated my blindness, I could have been hopeless and scared, and she would comfort me in her maternal way. That wouldn’t be real. She knew that John wasn’t there.

“I’m going to see Greg.”

“Yes, well I’ll take you.”

I needed this; with her as my escort she could spare me my pride. I couldn’t have to wear my glasses or take with me a cane, even if every passerby knew what I was.

“Oh Sherlock, we _must_ cut your hair soon. You look like a girl, you know!”

“Do I? I hadn’t checked.”

I wish I could take these words away, I knew they would hurt her. Before I managed a weak apology, she took my arm and led me out the door.

I wasn’t ready for the front door, the street was fresh and the sun was bright, even if had nearly left the day. I couldn’t see the sun, but it was there on my skin, and on my scalp. I heard sounds I had forgotten were real, car horns and sparrows, leaves touching each other, distant music quietly humming. It was a symphony. I reveled in it. I almost forgot all of the whispers John made in his sleep, mewls and growls, his soft and hard voices, I almost forgot them all as I was invited back into life in London. I didn’t forget, they played on top of each other on a broken tape in the back of my mind.

I straightened my back and took a step with an unbent knee, Mrs Hudson followed with her arm locked to mine, and we walked to the left to the closest pub I supposed Greg would already be drinking in.


	6. Chapter 6

I arrived, and Mrs. Hudson left me there with a kiss on my cheek. I felt like a child left alone in a crowd of masses, on the edge of tears, hopelessly lost.

I was stronger than that; I had my memory to aid me and a friend on the inside. I breathed sharply out of my mouth, and pushed the door open with my head bowed. Meeting Greg was a distraction, my heavy mind would be lightened a little by his company. It was the company I needed, but not the company I desired.

The smell was warming; it filled my nose and back of my throat, it swirled there and stayed. The atmosphere was equally warm, and I was invited by Greg’s voice.

“Sherlock!”

He paused, stepped over something and made his way to me. He grasped my arm, which I expected, but I flinched anyway. It reminded him of how I was. It was in the back of his mind, I’m sure, but I felt how his grip loosened as I pulled away.

“I’m sorry, mate. Look, the first one’s on me, alright? I’m sorry.”

I took a deeper breath than before, inhaled his presence, which couldn’t even compare to John’s when he was near me. Greg kept hold of the fabric of my shirt as he led me to a stool. He ordered us two beers, I faced the bench and slumped over it.

I realised that his voice was lower than it usually was, and was this because he’d begun drinking already, or because he’d address me differently now?

The drinks came. The condensation from the side of the glass dripped on me, I picked it up and it numbed my hand.

“Cheers.” Greg said, and I raised the cool froth to my lips.

“So How’s John, eh? He been treating you right?”

“Yes, fine. He’s always been fine.”

“Then where is he?”

I hesitated while I created a lie. It occurred to me that I didn’t know where he was anyway.

“With a girl.”

“Ooh he’s cheeky, isn’t he? So who’s the lucky lady _this_ time?”

_Lucky lady._

“He didn’t say.”

“Ah, he’ll settle down one day I’m sure. Now _you_ ,how are you?”

I took another sip, deeply. I would tell him some of the truth.

“I still feel like I’m seeing. My eyes still dart to a sudden sound, or an itch on my body. I don’t rely on my other senses, I haven’t done much to be perfectly honest. This is the first time I’ve been out in weeks. I’ve relied on John.”

He gasped a little.

“Well thank god he loves you then, am I right?”

I turned my head to him, replied a little too quickly:

“What?”

“He’s one of few that can put up with you, you git. Now don’t put too much pressure on Mrs. Hudson, she’s not your mother…”

He drifted off. He didn’t mean that John _loved_ me, he meant that John tolerated me.

But he _did_ love me, he said so.

I took another sip, and swallowed more than I thought I could in one go. It dripped down my throat and bubbled, I became a little dizzy.

“…So I think this next case might be a big one.”

“Sorry?”

“So are you gonna help or what? I think it’s a bit too much for us alone.”

“Well, I’d have to think about it. I might have to see what John thinks about it.”

“He’d come, he has to! He’s your partner in crime!”

He nudged my shoulder with his fist, I heard him take a swig.

“…Yes.”

“Things alright between you two?”

“Fine.”

“Okay.”

He said that uneasily, and he and I shuffled in our seats.

“Any word from my brother?”

“No, he’s been quiet since everything happened. He’s probably just busy, or maybe a tad bored not having to look after your ass!”

I chuckled. I rested my chin on the edge of the glass, then picked it up to weigh how much was left. One more gulp. I took it.

Any other day I would have moderated how much I drank, in the spaces of time, the volume and concentration against my blood-alcohol limits. It didn’t matter now that my goal was to be drunk, I was already buzzing a little after the first one, and Greg was good company for me.

“Perhaps something a little stronger? I’m buying.”

Greg mumbled something inaudible to the bartender, and two small glasses were placed in front of us within moments. Shots.

“Now try this, this’ll be something for you”

I took it lightly between my thin fingers, and we drank them together. That moment of regret before it entered my mouth was there, but I knew it was something I couldn’t drink slowly. The sweet liquid, thicker than beer but not syrup, tricked past my lips and I forced myself to swallow. After that I knew it wouldn’t be long until it took full effect, especially on my empty stomach.

“Haha, now _this_ is more like it! Lemme get you another.”

I couldn’t wait, I had to have more. It wasn’t the taste, I needed to suppress myself, to subdue. I needed to dampen.

Another two were placed before us, I downed mine with a grin and with looser body language. I straightened, and created my own confidence from thin air. I smiled at Greg, and maybe he smiled back at me. We took the drink together, my mind was alive. My memories were before me in full colour and I felt the presence of my surroundings was the best thing to exist in the universe.

John was still there, and he was kissing me on the nose and giggling in his oversized sweater. It wasn’t my mind palace, it was something else, a mind paradise.

Greg kept bringing me the drinks, and I fell deeper into my paradise, making useless conversation with him. It was funny, and it meant nothing, but we were both so _happy_ in a pub in the middle of London at nine o’clock.

Nothing hurt, the drink let me trust everything. I could have drunk it forever, really, as a substitute for John. The money didn’t matter, I had nothing else in the world anyway.

I’d lost count of how many I’d had and the time, and I thought I felt the pure alcohol running through my veins. I was so warm, I lost all orientation and analysis didn’t matter. Everything was the way it was, there was never consequence.

Greg knew better than me; he looked at the empty glasses in front of us and realised it was time to go. I insisted that I had money, more than enough to cover all this and more, and even if there was only ninety in my pocket I had more at home. He shook his head and smiled, just told me:

“This one’s on me, after everything.”

He took my arm and led me out the door, turned around and waved to the bartender who bid us goodnight as we left.

We were at the door, he pat me on the back, thanked me for the evening.

“No, thank _you,_ Greg, you don’t… even know how much you’ve done. Take the money for the cab, please.”

“Thanks mate, I was running a little dry there! Haha. Thanks for callin’ me Greg too, glad you’ve picked up that habit.”

“Well it is your name.”

“That it is. Say hi to John for me.”

He hailed a cab, and I fell onto my front door, somehow opening it. Mrs. Hudson would be asleep by now.

I crawled up the stairs and collapsed onto the bed in front of me. It was different; it smelt nicer and sunk more where I lay in it. It was all I could do to kick my shoes off before I fell asleep under the perfect, warm blankets.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I wrote this three months ago and it doesn't make perfect sense with where the story's at, but we'll go with it I guess.

I fell asleep soon after.

It was a slow slide into the deepest parts of my mind, and in the instant before I lost consciousness, I knew a dream would await. My eyes flickered right to left and I frowned, exploring this strange, familiar and primal feeling. From the cold dark a dim light brightened enough for me to view my surroundings. I analysed them, and then I forgot. In front of me was John, who was not there before.

He stood with his legs spread and his feet splayed outward, and I _saw_ him in all his beauty. He was not helpless, his head bowed and his eyes glimmered. I edged a smile, looked away and he was closer. His body was in no different position, but I could smell him now. I looked away again so that he might be closer still, but he remained. He brought his head up to meet my gaze. His eyes were wild. _He_ was wild. I created a wall behind me, before it was a void of endless space. He took a step and shoved me against it, so effortlessly, with an unchanged expression. I did not fall, but I leant at an uneasy angle. He forced me to my knees, now grabbing my throat with his left hand. I held back what I could in breath, otherwise I feared I would wake myself up. While I was aware this was a dream, this was only on a subconscious level, the foremost part of this lived in its own reality. Against the strength of his hand I looked up, and he roughly kissed me. His hair was unkempt. He grabbed the front of my collar with both hands, pulling down my shirt and popping its buttons. He slowly exposed me. As he dragged his fingertips down, they brushed my naked chest, and waves of delight rushed over my body. He reached the last button and delicately undid it with his fingers. He then tore my shirt off my shoulders and halfway down my arms, and I could feel his breath touch me. I knew he’d seen my chest before, and I knew this was a dream, but I was so _bare_. A gasp escaped my mouth and he hushed me with his eyes. I silenced myself, and he hooked his fingers at the band of my trousers.

I had lost so much weight recently so that without the trouble of more buttons he could slip them off. With two layers of fabric between us, I could feel him close to me. He pulled them down past my thighs, and slipped each leg past my bare feet. He threw them aside, into the infinite nothingness of my dream. He was so clothed and I was near-naked, but perhaps that was my mind omitting the ‘unmarked territory’ of his body. John pulled his jumper over his head and began unbuttoning his own one-handed, the other hand nearing my skin and brushing over it.

I did not know why this dream was happening, or where it came from. It continued, and I did not object. He took my shoulders in his hands, and the friction between them was sublime. He was so warm and I was so cold, he brought my body to life. Again he kissed me, even rougher and messier than the last time. His upper lip meshed with my lower, we exchanged breath and saliva for an eternity. He closed his eyes and drew back, and I touched my tingling lips. They were raw. He touched them too, tracing around my cupid’s bow and down to my chin. He brought his hand underneath, drawing to my neck and down again. He felt me swallow, and he smiled, taking his hand further down to my collarbone and ribs. He reached my stomach and outlined a little circle around my belly-button. Down again, he reached my underwear and took the band between his second finger and thumb. I held my breath. He looked in my eyes and tugged them down, and I was at his mercy.

I was already there, he did not need to arouse me. He knew that he had me melted between his fingers. I looked down sheepishly and he smiled. He kissed me again, and he wrapped his hands around my length. He pulled the skin tight, and I nearly moaned. He hushed me again with a deep kiss, and continued. The veins were pulsating, I was _throbbing_ for him. He stroked with his right hand from the tip to the base, following with his left, then his right again. I tried not to look at him, but I couldn’t help myself from staring at slightly parted pink lips, his chest, steadily exhaling, and his _hands._ They gripped me and pulled with an impossible fluidity, I curled my hands into fists and bit my lip until it bled not to scream his name, over and over again for the rest of time. He lowered his head, and the warmth of his mouth took the place of his hands. Every time he rose to the head, he looked up and caught my eyes for a second. Every time he forced me inside, he seemed to escape further. I was past his soft cheeks, I was inside of his throat, his muscles constricting around me while he pulled in and out so smoothly. His hands returned to the base, working in tandem with his lips, and every part of me was warmed by him. I was blinded in different ways, by the stars in my eyes and his stunning beauty. Part of me wanted to prolong this space, a reality between realities, of pleasure beyond and more intense than I had ever experienced. I wanted to drift in that constant and _real_ friction forever, but I wanted to know what the climax would be like, even if it meant sacrificing an immortality of stifled moans, I could hold my wonder no more, his existence was my release. My hips raised to meet him, to push millimeters deeper and convulse. I could see everything, and I could not hold in another gasp. I whined and the warmth John had given me expelled into his mouth. I left my world entirely and found a new, unexplored aspect of life. He looked into my eyes once more then dissolved, be broke apart like a jigsaw unsolved.

I returned to my room, my bed sheets and hands left with the memory of my dream. Part of me was still there, I sunk further into my bed and relived the dream now mostly forgotten. I remembered its foundation, how acute the feeling became, although I can never begin to imagine what it was like in its height. I remembered my body telling me to be quiet, or my dream would be interrupted. I remember, and I want to _feel_ what it is that John depends on. I want to know what it is like with him; I want to know what the feeling is like with another. I want to be human; I was so close to that in my sleep. I rolled off the side of my bed to retrieve new sheets.


End file.
